


Bee Kind

by merelypassingtime



Series: The Well of Lost Plots [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 14:23:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12134373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: But what if John was the reason Sherlock became interested in beekeeping?





	Bee Kind

Sherlock was deep in his mind palace pouring over old case notes when the tickle on his face finally pierced his concentration. With an annoyed huff he started to pull his mind back to his transport and the sunny flat it was laying in. He was already rising a hand to scratch at his nose when he opened his eyes. Blinking in the bright light it took a second for him to focus on the source of his irritation. He froze in panic when he was confronted with a pair of solid black eyes and huge, menacing mandibles only centimeters from his eyes.

“Aargh! John, help! I have a bee on me!”

For a second only silence greeted him and he worried that while he was thinking John had gone out for a pint or work or one of the one asinine things that took John away from him. He was relieved when a he glimpsed a bit of movement out of the corner of his eye. 

John's response was less comforting, with a long suffering sigh he asked, “Yeah? So what?”

“It is going to sting me!”

“Drama queen, it is not. That is a honey bee, they almost never sting.” John said, but Sherlock could see that he was standing up now and there was the rustling of a newspaper being folded.

“Whatever, just kill it!” he shot back, squeezing his eyes shut in preparation for blow landing.

Instead he felt something come to rest against his upper lip. His eyes flew open in time to be treated to a close up view of John's strong hand gently shooing the bee off his nose and into the cone of rolled newspaper he held in the other. 

“John!” he said with more than a little bit of whine in his voice.

“Hush. It was never going to hurt you, and honey bees do too much good to just go killing them. They pollinate one-sixth of all flowers and a lot of our food crops.” John lectured as he cupped one hand over the open end of the paper and walked towards the open window. “His little guy is part of a species that is in danger of becoming extinct and leaving us a less colorful and more hungry world.”

He held the makeshift trap out the window, shaking it until the bee flew off. Sherlock saw sadness beneath John's smile as he watched the little insect disappear into the noise and bustle of London.

“Oh! Someone in your childhood kept bees, probably your grandfather, and you used to help them.” Sherlock deduced.

“Half right, it was my uncle. Harry and I use to go out and spend a couple of weeks every summer with him and his 'good friend.'” The way he said it left little doubt as to what sort of friend he meant. “As dad got worse and especially after Harry came out the time I spent there was the happiest parts of my childhood. It was just before I got shot that my uncle passed, I missed his funeral...”

He shook himself out of the memory, and tried on a smile, “And yeah, I helped him with his bees and he taught me a lot. Like a honey bee will always be drawn to the most beautiful, interesting flower it can find.” During this little speech John had walked back over to where Sherlock was sprawled on the couch. He leaned over and kissed Sherlock's cheek, and said, “And he didn't hurt you, did he, Flower?”

Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes and say someone snide about the nickname, but looking into those kind blue eyes all he could do was love John, love him so much it hurt.

 

Thirty years later, as Sherlock slid the last frame back into the honey supers box, one curious bee braved the smoker he had set next to him and alighted on the tip of his nose. He smiled, recalling that long ago conversation, and left his tiny passenger alone as he stood on creaking knees to place the supers box back on top of the hive and put the cover back on. Only then did he wave the bee off his face and back towards its reassembled home. 

Satisfied that the bees were coming along fine he gathered up his tools and headed back towards the little cottage, hoping that John would be there ready with a kiss and maybe a cup of tea.


End file.
